


Words That Burn

by AuroraCloud



Category: Le Comte de Monte-Cristo | Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: 19th century lesbians, F/F, Female Characters, Female-Centric, First Kiss, Historical, Misses Clause Challenge, Music, POV Female Character, Women Writing, Yuletide, Yuletide 2017, canon lesbian characters (more or less)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 14:24:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13033053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraCloud/pseuds/AuroraCloud
Summary: Eugénie Danglars and Louise d'Armilly find their way to each other through music and poetry.





	Words That Burn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zdenka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zdenka/gifts).



> This story was inspired by the recipient's question of whether Eugénie wooed Louise with poetry. This is my answer. Hope you enjoy the story!
> 
> Title inspired by quote by Thomas Gray, "Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn". 
> 
> Many thanks to [shopfront](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shopfront/pseuds/shopfront) for beta-reading this story and helping make it better! Any flaws that remain are solely my fault, and especially any canon-related ones, as she kindly beta-read this despite not knowing the fandom, only getting a quick crash course from me as to what the story and these characters are about.

Had Louise d’Armilly not been considered a somewhat improper girl because of her plan to perform on stage one day, the Danglars family would surely have sent a coach to carry her home whenever she spent time with Eugénie. But today she didn't care that she had to walk home accompanied only by a maid. Today she needed the cool wind on her face, and her slender feet needed to walk the solid ground. There was a poem in her bodice and it burned.

Eugénie always looked singularly beautiful, with her long dark locks, dark eyes, fascinating features and strong, willowy body. But today she had been especially splendid in her white muslin day dress, storming into the music room, her dark eyes burning with a particular intensity. ”I have written a new poem. Would you be kind enough to set it to music, my dear Louise?”

As she spoke, she had held Louise’s hands in her own and Louise had felt a flush with the thrill of the touch which heated her all over.

”I — I will try,” she had stammered, wondering what had caused that particular light in Eugénie’s eyes.

Then she had read the poem.

And she had read it again. Oh, she had read it.

She had scarcely been able to look at Eugénie after reading it. She had felt sure that all her feelings were written on her face with as clear a script as could be. Eugénie had looked back at her in bold challenge, like a conquering horsewoman of old. And Louise wanted to ride away with her.

*****

Louise lay in her bed that night, wide awake, and imagined it was her that the poem spoke of. _Her_ golden curls, _her_ sapphire gaze full of dreams, her nimble fingers (there was something odd, almost wicked, about that line, and it made Louise shiver deliciously — no, uncomfortably, of course). She imagined it was _her_ music that restored meaning into a meaningless world.

This was not helped by the fact that just last week, Eugénie had exclaimed: ”Louise, music is the only meaningful thing in this meaningless world. Thank goodness you bring it to me.”

Eugénie was given to violent statements, but that was the most emotional thing Louise had heard her say in a long time.

Louise had tried to assure her that the world was not meaningless, but she could not really argue Eugénie’s point, considering what M. and Mme Danglars tried to shrink Eugénie’s world to.”You would bring music to your life, no matter what,”she said instead

Eugénie had looked at her queerly, smiled, and pressed a kiss on her hand. ”Why, Louise, what a lovely thing to say.” She felt warm now to think of that kiss, and wished she could feel it again.

She startled awake from her reveries. What was she thinking of? She was drifting perilously close to something… something she could not, would not, quite name. She tried to shake her head free of such thoughts, and found it hard to be within her own skin.

She fell asleep uneasily to wishes of Eugénie stroking her hair with those long, strong fingers of hers.

*****

Louise came to their meeting the next day with her heart beating wildly somewhere in the region of her throat. Eugénie looked magnificent, wearing her luxurious dress like a queen, her dark hair a crown around her head. Her cheeks were uncharacteristically ablaze, and she was even more beautiful than usual this way. Louise felt weak at the knees. It was entirely unfair that women could be so lovely. How on earth was one supposed to develop any kind of interest in men when there was someone like Eugénie Danglars in the world? There was a serious flaw in the ways of the world, and if she ever met God, she would give Him her mind about it.

Eugénie fixed her with an inquisitive look, and for a moment she looked nervous (though perhaps Louise imagined it.) She licked her lips with the tip of her tongue, and this caused quite an indecent shiver through Louise’s body.

Louise clutched her satchel of music sheets in her hands. ”I did what you asked. The poem, I mean. Set it to music.”

Eugénie smiled, but Louise was too nervous to figure out what emotion was hiding behind the smile. ”Lovely. Let me hear it, will you, my dear?”

They crammed together to sit on one piano stool. This was often Louise’s favourite moment of the day, but never before had it felt so nerve-wracking. She felt heated from the press of Eugénie’s body against her own, as though skin could ignite skin through layers of clothing. She wondered what Eugénie’s skin would feel like under her hand, and then pushed the thought quickly away.

She played the melody she had found for the song in the quiet hours of morning. She sang out the song, but it felt odd coming out of her lips, as though she was praising herself.

When she had finished, Eugénie granted her a dazzling smile. ”I could kiss you, Louise,” she said. ”Nobody has ever set my words to music before, and this is so beautiful! You are a genius, my dear.”

Louise felt herself flush, heated to the core as she imagined Eugénie kissing her. Her mental image had nothing to do with a chaste peck on the cheek appropriate between friends. ”Your words were so beautiful,” she murmured.

Eugénie took Louise’s hand between hers. ”If you think so, I will write you more.”

Louise stared at their joined hands and almost dreaded what would happen if Eugénie wrote more poetry for her.

*****

Over the next two weeks, they practiced playing the piano four-handed, perfecting it to an exquisitely lovely art. It was certainly not a chore for Louise to spend evening after evening sitting next to Eugénie with their sides pressed together.Eugénie’s billowing skirts fell on Louise’s lap, their fingers brushed together on the keyboard and their music melted together to create something lovelier than either of them could do alone.

Sometimes they played for Eugénie’s family and their friends, for the society know-it-alls who frequented the household, and they received their due compliments. But it mattered little compared to the joy of what they were doing together, especially since Louise knew that Eugénie understood much better the beauty of their music than any of their audience did. Perhaps one day they could perform to audiences with real taste and understanding.

She said so to Eugénie once. Eugénie looked at her with an ache of longing on her face.”Oh, I only wish! I envy you for having a future of music. You deserve it, but I wish…”

”Why only wish?” Louise asked. ”You are stronger than any woman I know. Such a future could also be yours if you decide to pursue it.”

Eugénie turned to her and squeezed her hands. ”You are right, Louise. It’s a dream I’ve always had. I’m not giving up just because my parents are self-important arrivistes who have exchanged their hearts for ambition.”

Louise laughed. ”That sounds like the Eugénie I know.”

Eugénie looked into her eyes. ”You are the only one who knows me.”

Louise wondered what would happen if she leaned forward and kissed Eugénie on the mouth. But she only kissed her on the forehead, and held Eugénie and let her lay her head on Louise’s breast. That night, Louise stayed in the house, in the guest room nearest to Eugénie’s room, and they talked into late at night about music, and about the world in which they could live for music alone.

*****

Another night, Louise found herself with more of Eugénie’s poems. Among verses of music, distant lands, and the delights of freedom, she read one oddly intimate poem of love. Eugénie never wrote poems of love. It didn’t feel like this one was written about a man at all. Louise tried not to think of it, and yet thought about it a great deal.

”You do not often write poems of love,” she said the next time they met, her voice trembling.

”I have no interest in the love of a man that other girls dream of.” Eugénie kept her eyes fixed to her sheet music as she spoke

Louise felt relieved and nervous at once. ”I don’t dream of it either,” she confessed. ”I have only wanted to give my life to music. Some people ask me if it’s not terrible that I can’t marry if I want to join the stage. But to me, it only makes the stage even more attractive.”

”I’m so glad you agree with me,” Eugénie said fervently. ”I would gladly give my life to music. There are only two things in life that matter to me, Louise. Music, and your friendship.”

Louise quivered like a violin string played tenderly by a bow, as though she might burst into music any moment now. Eugénie’s hands grasped hers, so strong, her eyes looked into Louise’s intently, and Louise felt irresistibly drawn towards her.

Before either one of them moved, there was a sharp knock on the door. Eugénie and Louise pulled back sharply. Mme Danglars came into the room.

”Albert de Morcerf is back in town. Eugénie, get ready to meet him at tonight’s supper.” She spared a glance towards Louise, but her eyes shifted quickly back to Eugénie as though Louise was a slightly unpleasant but necessary piece of furniture. ”Do make sure you prepare some charming music pieces to play for him.”

Eugénie’s eyes blazed, and Louise saw the unadulterated anger radiating from her as she haughtily lifted up her chin. ”Anything I play is good enough for Albert de Morcerf to hear.”

It was true, Louise thought, but Mme Danglars narrowed her eyes. ”Careful, Eugénie. Such a wilful young girl may have a hard time getting married.”

”I should hope so!” Eugénie exclaimed as her mother shut the door.

*****

In the coming weeks, Louise did her best to provide joy to Eugénie, who was at times depressed, at times angered by the prospects of her coming marriage. She found delightful arias for Eugénie to sing, enjoying her friend immersing herself in the songs of her favourite heroines. Eugénie progressed considerably in her music, and talked more and more of wanting to forsake society’s expectations and devote herself to a career of music.  
But as the reality of Eugénie’s parents’ expectations asserted itself, and her engagement to Albert de Morcerf did not disappear even after the most intense sessions of music, Eugénie turned more bitter. Her comments about Albert de Morcerf were so scathing that even Louise felt compelled to defend him. ”Surely he is no worse than other young men?”

”No better and no worse,” Eugénie replied. ”Only he is worse than any, because my parents intend for me to marry him!”

Louise sighed and embraced her friend, grateful in her heart that she was not rich enough to be pushed into a marriage by anyone. She felt Eugénie’s rigid posture relent somewhat against her hold.

”I don’t want to marry him,” Eugénie said, and her anger and disdain gave way to a sadness that wrenched Louise’s heart. ”I will not marry him.”

”There must be a way out of it,” Louise said. ”It’s not fair you should get married when you don’t want to. Can you tell your parents you want to be a musician rather than marry?”

”They only think it a childish whim,” Eugénie said, and pressed her head against Louise’s. ”But Louise, I do want that! More than anything. When you become a world-famous singer, then perhaps you will go to Rome and I want to go there with you!”

”I would love it if you came with me,” Louise said warmly, and laced her fingers in Eugénie’s.

*****

She found them a new duet to practice. It was from one of those operas where the leading young man was played by a woman. It was peculiar to have Eugénie watch her with those expressive dark eyes of hers and sing her tones of love with her full, melodious voice, while Louise responded. But it was a pleasant sort of peculiarity. Their voices intertwined in a sweet delight, and Louise thought she would gladly have this sort of thing for the rest of her life.

Eugénie wrote more poems, describing the delights of music, and fancies of Rome and freedom. She also wrote a ballad about two girls who set out on the road to find the fabled City of Songs and Women. It consisted only of women who lived for art and music, and nobody forced them to marry anyone. The two girls in the poem lived together in a house and made music for themselves and for each other. 

Louise set many of the poems to music, and she instructed Eugénie in how to compose songs of her own. Most of these songs, however, Eugénie never performed in social evenings that her parents and their friends organised.

”They would not understand,” Eugénie said, and became the hard, bitter person that she was with anyone except Louise. ”These poems speak too much of my heart.”

”I’m glad you share them with me,” Louise said.

”I would share anything with you, Louise.”

*****

Then Eugénie wrote Louise a poem that made Louise feel so strange that she never brought it up with Eugénie again, not even to say that it had been beautiful. She did, however, sleep with the poem under her pillow.

One morning she lay awake, thinking of the poem, of Eugénie and the wishes and daydreams that lived within her, and wondered what was wrong with her. There were words for women who felt like this about other women, and they were not beautiful words. But this was beautiful, Louise knew it. Did Eugénie feel it, too?

That way lay perdition. She would be better not think of it.

But she admitted that perdition felt much more beautiful and worthy than whatever lawful path she was supposed to tread.

Still, she turned down Eugénie’s request to stay in her house that night. Half the night she lay awake and regretted it.

*****

Some days later, they were in Eugénie’s music room again. They had tried to compose a poem into music but had made little progress, probably because Eugénie was enraged about her parents' insistence on her marrying young Morcerf.

Louise gave Eugénie some Chopin to take her mind off of everything. She watched Eugénie play. Eugénie’s back was rigid, and her playing was forceful and wild. Suddenly she slammed her fingers against the keyboard in a grating loud discord.

”I can’t get it right!” she growled.

”It was right,” Louise said. Music was the only thing she knew for certain. ”Until you did that.”

”It didn’t sound right to me.” Eugénie got up, and her skirts brushed against Louise’s ankle as she moved. ”I am going to bed.”

”Already?” It wasn’t even nine thirty.

”I didn’t sleep well. I am tired.” Eugénie had her back turned to Louise. 

”Do you mind if I stay and play?”

”Go ahead.”

Louise stayed and played, calming, soothing music for Eugénie’s nerves. She wished her music could carry Eugénie away from this horrid house, from the opulent cage and the empty world of her family. She wished music would give them wings to escape with.

She stayed in the guest room again that night. But she didn’t sleep well. When she did fall asleep, she dreamed of Eugénie up in a tower, smiling sadly and letting down her hair, the dark braids falling all the way down to Louise. Louise grasped them like they were ropes and started to climb up the tower, but then she stopped. ”It’s not right,” she thought. ”I am not strong enough, and I have no right. It ought to be a prince.”

”Haven’t I told you I don’t want a prince?” Eugénie asked.

But Louise did not believe she could climb up those thick, dark braids. She got back down to the ground. Anger flashed through Eugénie’s eyes, and she chopped off her hair. The braids fell in thick black coils at Louise’s feet. ”Now nobody can get up here,” she yelled at Louise. ”Not ever.”

Louise woke up to a cold, gray morning and the voices of Eugénie’s parents arguing about money.

*****

A week after that, Eugénie gave Louise another poem. It was sad, and Louise did not like to think of Eugénie being sad. 

”How can I make you happy?” Louise asked Eugénie.

”Sing for me,” Eugénie said. ”And then let us play together.”

She did that.

*****

  
On one fair day full of magnolias and fresh wind, when the girls had finished their shared piano practice, Eugénie gave Louise one more poem. Written on lavender-tinged paper in Eugénie’s swirling hand, it described in detail a gifted, fair, gold-haired girl whose singing was ”more lovely than the song of the thrush, for it is the song of a woman.” There was no doubt that the song was the same one that Louise had sung to Eugénie after their last music lesson.

”How do you like it?” Eugénie asked.

”You should stop that,” Louise said with a wavering voice. ”Else you will make me think they are meant for me.”

Eugénie looked back at her, and for a moment Louise thought she looked hurt. Then it was replaced by bold, brassy challenge. ”What if they are?”

Louise hot all over her face and under her dress. Why was Eugénie playing with her like this? ”That is impossible.”

”You know I’m well known to be impossible.” Eugénie smiled like Diana triumphant, and Louise felt herself completely disarmed.

She looked at their hands, resting on the piano keys. Two girls, four hands, and the exquisite music that they made together. A world that was only theirs. She moved her left hand tentatively two keys down, closer to Eugénie’s long, strong fingers. ”I do know,” she murmured.

”And what do you think of my impossibility?” Eugénie’s question clung to the air like the last tone of a song.

”Eugénie, I —” _I am enchanted by it. I want it. It’s what must be. I love it. You._

Eugénie must have heard what she did not say, for she covered Louise’s hand with her own. At the warmth of her touch, Louise’s fingers pressed down to form a simple sweet chord which rang in the air.

Louise turned her head. Eugénie looked at her with burning eyes. Louise knew that emotion in Eugénie’s eyes was reserved for two things in this world alone: music, and Louise herself. Eugénie opened her luscious mouth.

”Louise. They are for you. Every one of them.”

Louise did the only thing that felt right. She leaned in and kissed Eugénie on the lips, capturing that soft full mouth under her own.

Eugénie kissed Louise back, and her mouth was as warm and sensuous as it looked.

They parted, but not far. Louise felt Eugénie’s breath hot on her lips, and their chests rose and fell against each other. Eugénie’s other hand circled around her waist, holding her strong and sure. ”Louise, I could never write a poem of love except for you.”

”And I would never accept one from anyone but you,” Louise whispered, and lifted her hand to Eugénie’s temple. She softly stroked a loose strand of hair, and breathed in the scent of Eugénie. The scent of the woman that she loved.

Eugénie exhaled, and her head came to rest against Louise’s. Louise embraced her.

”Louise, my dear,” Eugénie whispered, and her lips brushed against Louise’s cheek. ”Will you run away with me?”

Louise turned her head to press their lips together again. ”Yes. Eugénie. I will.”


End file.
